


Flirtin' With Disaster

by plingo_kat



Category: Tron (Movies), Tron: Legacy (2010)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-17
Updated: 2011-03-17
Packaged: 2017-10-17 01:54:40
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,590
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/171723
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/plingo_kat/pseuds/plingo_kat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clu and Sam have an encounter. Power plays, manipulation, and sex ensue.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Flirtin' With Disaster

**Author's Note:**

> So. Am currently writing an evil!Sam 'verse (kind of like the Star Trek mirror-verse) and of course the porn is what gets done first. Plot is pending.

“Jesus Christ,” breathes Sam, leaning back against the table. Clu laughs lowly, running his fingers down Sam’s sides, and the pixels of his suit flake away at the touch.

“If you insist, man,” he says, and Sam snarls wordlessly in reply, groping at Clu’s back to detach his disc. Clu’s mouth goes slack as Sam runs his hands over it, but Sam knows better to do anything other than disintegrate his robes; Clu is still better at programming than him, stronger and faster, and could kill him without a moment’s regret.

Not that he looks very dangerous right then, at least not in a lethal way; he does, however, look predatory, and stalks forward to crowd Sam so he has to lean back and support himself with his arms. The edge of the table digs into the back of his thighs.

“Are you happy to see me, Sam Flynn?”

Sam has to swallow before speaking, because for just a second it’s his father standing there looking at him with approval, infinitely more welcome than any sexual encounter could be. And then Clu smirks, proud and cruel, and the moment is broken.

“Like you give a fuck,” Sam says, then hisses when Clu’s hand wraps tight around his cock.

“Oh, but I do,” Clu purrs, and presses an open-mouthed kiss against Sam’s lips. “ _User_. I was here first. _I_ am in charge. Say it.” When Sam shakes his head, he bites down hard on his lower lip. “ _Tell me_.”

Sam arches forward in pain and pleasure, a hot grip on his cock and the sharp sting of teeth. “No,” he pants, leaning forward to hook an arm around Clu’s shoulders, a leg around his hip. “My father created you, left you, just like me. If he came back--”

He’s cut off by Clu surging forward, mouth pressing hard against his. Sam tightens his grip so he doesn’t fall over, grabs a handful of hair in a way he knows will hurt. Clu lets go of his cock to dig finger-shaped bruises into the flesh of his hip, the other hand pulling his head back to bare his neck. They crash down onto the table.

Finally all those hours being beaten into the mat by Rinzler pay off. Sam flips them over so that he’s on top, straddling Clu’s hips, and they both groan as his weight settles. Clu’s eyes are slitted and seem to flicker; Sam thinks that he can see the data streams flowing inside his pupils, bright points inside the darkness.

That train of thought is cut off as the rough pad of a thumb is brushed hard across his nipple and Sam loosens his grip enough on Clu’s body for him to flip them again. Sam’s shoulder blades and head thunk solidly against metal -- he’s going to have bruises tomorrow, but then again he always does.

He rakes blunt nails down Clu’s back in revenge, gasping as teeth sink into the skin above his collarbone. It’s something he’s noticed, the need for Clu to mark, claim, subdue, but Sam gets his own back by scratching bright orange stripes in parallel rows of four, breaking the subtle, linear lines of circuitry that glow under every program’s skin. Clu growls, more of a feeling than a sound, like the background hum of a giant computer translated into kinematic vibration that rumbles against his chest and the inner skin of his thighs.

“Hurry _up_ ,” Sam groans, rutting forward helplessly. “Bastard.”

“Patience,” Clu says. His face isn’t flushed, he isn’t sweating -- he can’t, it’s not in his programming -- but his chest heaves in simulated pants and he exhales hot, dry air against the sweat-slick skin of Sam’s throat. “Unless you want to beg me, of course.”

“Like hell,” Sam says, then whines as Clu does something with his wrists and skin temperature that has his eyes rolling up in his head. “Oh, _fuck_.”

“That can be arranged.”

Sam yanks Clu forward for what can only barely be described as a kiss, what’s more a clash of teeth and lips and tongue, a battle, so that the program will just _stop talking_. When Clu pulls away he breathes in deep through his nose, nuzzles almost tenderly at the skin behind Sam’s ear. Sam turns his head, grants enough access for stinging nips and sucks over his jugular, and doesn’t resist when he’s shifted so that one leg is hooked over Clu’s shoulder.

Fingers coming to rest on his lips aren’t a surprise, although the soft way they brush along his chin, like asking for permission, is. Sam lets them in readily, closes teeth gently over knuckles, laves his tongue along smooth skin that tastes like copper and electricity. A quick look at Clu’s face tells him the program is not unaffected; the hand running down his chest is distracted and aimless, Clu’s attention focused on Sam’s mouth.

He smiles, a quirk of facial muscles for half a moment, then hollows his cheeks and sucks hard. Clu’s eyes widen, then narrow, and when he jerks his hand back it’s with a wet, obscene pop. Sam swipes his tongue over his lower lip, open-mouthed. He knows what it does to Clu, knows that then--

He gasps and jerks when Clu grips his waist, fingers digging into the muscle of his ass to pull him further upwards. Their hips slot together, Clu’s cock pressing snugly along the skin of Sam’s perineum. And then of course Clu takes his time, the bastard, running his fingers leisurely under his own cock and barely brushing any part of Sam at all. Sam bucks, snarling, trying to get _more_ , dammit, but Clu is stronger than him and just uses his weight to pin Sam to the table, uses his arm like an iron bar across Sam’s stomach to keep him close.

“You gonna fuck me or not?” Sam goads, and is rewarded with a sharp bite on his chest. “Dammit, ow!”

“You brought it on yourself.” Clu’s voice is gravely and wrecked, hoarse in that very special way. For a second Sam is blindsided by the memory of his father, sick in bed but still regaling young Sam with tales of the Grid, and all the breath goes out of him.

“Open up, now.”

That brings Sam back to himself; Kevin Flynn’s voice was never so mocking, so casually cruel. He has just enough time to hitch in a breath before Clu’s fingers breach him, a deep burn present even when the Grid allows numerous physical impossibilities. He can’t help the sound he makes, almost a sob, and it’s made even worse by the words Clu croon in his ear, soft reassurances that make it impossible for Sam to hate him.

Clu preps him only enough so there’s no blood, and Sam grits his teeth, throws his head back and arches his spine as Clu pushes in with inching little thrusts.

“You’re doing good, Sam, you feel excellent,” Clu murmurs, licking a path up Sam’s jaw to catch an earlobe between his teeth. “Come on, relax for me.”

“Shut. Up.” Sam grinds out, knuckles white with pressure where they’re holding onto Clu’s shoulders, bright bruising spots of orange forming under the pads of his fingers. Clu just hums his approval, rolling his hips in a slow, inexorable rhythm until all Sam can do is gasp and make low, pleading noises deep in his throat.

Clu’s circuits throb, growing brighter and hotter with each thrust. Sam can feel the heat of them on the back on his thighs, along the skin of his ass, and it adds a delicious edge to the pleasure building low in his gut, the tight winding sensation coiling along his spine.

“Come _on_ ,” Clu urges.

Sam cries out as he comes, eyes wide and staring at nothing. Clu stiffens and his circuits flash blindingly bright; his jaw tightens and then goes slack before he slumps over Sam. After a moment Sam pushes at Clu with a grunt, endorphin rush wearing off and body protesting at being bent in half. He winces as Clu pulls out, still too dry to be comfortable.

“Hm.” Clu makes a satisfied sound. He’s already rematerialized his suit and robe, heavy folds settling around his shoulders. Sam replies with an agreeable noise, sprawled naked over the table, legs spread wide and looking thoroughly debauched. Clu trails a gloved hand up Sam’s arm and starts down his chest before Sam reaches up to grasp his wrist.

“Yes?” Clu raises an eyebrow. Sam rolls his eyes, but brings Clu’s fingers to his lips one last time, trapping the material of Clu’s glove between his teeth and sucking gently at the very tip of his finger. As Clu stares -- definitely a fixation with his mouth, Sam thinks -- he lets go and rolls off the table in a single smooth motion, landing just a little awkwardly when a twinge in his ass makes itself known. He recreates his own suit then, picking up his disc from where it had been dropped carelessly on the floor and fitting it onto his back.

“That was nice,” he drawls, voice still rough. “We should do it again some time.”

Clu’s eyes narrow. “We should,” he agrees smoothly. “I’ll make plans. I hope you'll look forward to it.” He smiles thinly. “I certainly am.”

Sam shrugs, rolls his head to crack his neck, and walks out. Damn it, Clu always has to have the last word.

Although those _plans_ do sound... promising. Maybe.

Sam starts making plans of his own.


End file.
